


Wynter Wakeneth Alle My Care

by slowlymovingfarforward



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur is also the worst, Arthur is confused, But then he gets better, Canon Era, Hints of Knights/Arthur, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Arthur, but not really, hints of Merlin/Knights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:56:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6780664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowlymovingfarforward/pseuds/slowlymovingfarforward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Camelot was eager, Arthur could feel it. She was ready to burst into bloom. And so, apparently, was Merlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wynter Wakeneth Alle My Care

**Author's Note:**

> This story may also be found on my tumblr, @dinosaursandraccoons.tumblr.com, though a little less polished (thanks to Tumblr eating up my edited version!!!) I love these two and have much, much more planned for them in the future, so please feel free to head on over to tumblr and let me know what you think!

Spring in Camelot this year was a shy, blushing thing.  The winter had been harsh and cruel - more so than usual, if the accounts from northern villages were to be believed.  Now, almost six full weeks past Yule, the days were marginally longer, the snowfall dusting gently across treetops and tower heads, melting demurely before the sun’s soft rays even touched he outlying woods. The sun was still distant and weak, when it rose, and the air, though crisp and clear, still held a cruel, bitter bite.  Yet there was a sense of the turning seasons - Arthur sensed it humming restlessly under his skin, itching with the promise of life.  The castle was equally disquiet; the smooth mechanical operations of servants and lords alike seemed disjointed and out of sorts as all Camelot held its breath, expectant and impatient for warmer air and a softer breeze. Camelot was eager, Arthur could feel it. She was ready to burst into bloom.

And so, apparently, was Merlin.  

***************************************************************************

It wasn’t a sudden realization, per se.  It was - no, not on the hunt, when Arthur found himself regarding a smudge of dirt on Merlin’s face, attractively smeared over his cheekbone.  And, no, not then either, when the snow and wind turned everything outside Arthur’s window a featureless gray sheet, and he turned away from it to find Merlin stoking the fire contemplatively, wearing that queer far-away look he sometimes put on that was scarily intelligent and alien on his normally hapless face.  Staring into the hearth, sharp bones and angles softened by the glow of the fire, eyes heavy and dark in thought - but, no. Not even then.

It was just - 

An impression.  A change in the quality of the air around Merlin, perhaps, when the last of the winter winds howled through the city, and the castle shuddered through the aftershocks of a harsh, icy New Year.  For Merlin looked - well, no - he  _felt_ different.  His gangly, knobbly knees and elbows, for one, had smoothed into something lithe and oddly coordinated, if not graceful.  Arthur caught himself watching Merlin stoop to pick up a discarded tunic: a careless swaying to the ground, fingertips whisking it away, a sweet curve to his back and shoulders as he uncurled from the floor.  Even Merlin’s _ears,_ his _ridiculous_ ears, seemed to be, if not smaller, then better suited to the gradual squaring of his jaw, the sharpening lines of his features. And it was just in moments - flashes in the pan - hints at untapped potential and strength and a mysterious, faraway quality that drew him in: inexorable, inevitable.  There was just something about him.  Something vast and almost melancholy, deep in his eyes, tucked into the corners of his pouting mouth.

It was this last which infuriated Arthur to no end, even as it led to the kind of deep fascination with Merlin’s hitherto gormless features that made him feel strange and covetous and greedy.  And why should he feel so, anyway, when Merlin flopped around like a dying fish during each hunt and complained loudly about Arthur’s fat arse after nearly every state function?  It was all very disconcerting, and that combined with being cooped up in the inner chambers for the last few weeks made Arthur disagreeable and short-tempered.  Itchy in his skin.

_Merlin,_ for his part, didn’t seem too bothered.  He just went about his business as usual, which is to say, he ignored his job or was so shoddy at it Arthur had to do much of it _himself -_ but he _was_ getting better, and just a tad faster, too, so that sometimes when Arthur did indoor training with the knights in the keep he could take some time to join in.  At first he was laughable, falling all over himself trying to keep up during the exercises and, on one memorable occasion, knocking over the whole brace of bow staffs.  But now, again, those moments and flashes.  Wearing the same light tunic and breeches as the other men, looking _aware_ in his body, controlling the length and stretch of it, bottom lip bitten in concentration as he moved through the forms.  It was a language Arthur’s body immediately responded to: familiar and yet, in Merlin, so devastatingly _new._  

***********************************************************************************

The knights doted on him, and it was obvious that his men found Merlin’s antics wholly adorable.  Sir Leon took special time out to correct Merlin’s stances and sets his paces, hands heavy on Merlin's shoulder and spanning his waist.  Elyan and Lancelot would drop a few berries and nuts into the palm of his hand whenever they stopped for break, and Percival especially gentled his tackle when Merlin was goaded into combat training.  And Gwaine, _Gwaine,_ winking roguishly at Merlin every ten minutes, waving his sword around like a lunatic to make Merlin laugh (a bright, delighted sound), taking his wrist so carefully and laying the wooden pommel in his hand as though it were a sacred duty. Lingering, after.    

It warmed him, deeply, to see all that he laid his claim to flourishing in the cold.  (But, bred in the way of kings, a dark hunger sharpened his eye. At his manservant, blithely giving out his quirked-lip smiles and sparkling eyes as though they were not precious, hard-won things.  His knights, so gentle and dear with Merlin, yet so silent and stoic with him.  And, horrifyingly, at both, the idea of them finding enjoyment in each other, _without Arthur_ , when they all, all of them, belonged to _him_? But these were unworthy thoughts, and Arthur tried to banish them as soon as they stole across his mind.) It _did_ warm him, deep in the innermost chambers of his heart, to see all those he loved so well, so well-loved by one another.

Well, in any case, the knights were utterly besotted.  Arthur was - irrationally, selfishly -  beyond incensed.  And if he were any less noble a personage than Crown Prince, one could say that he worked his manservant too hard, in the next few days, sending him out and about on mean little errands at all hours of the cold, frigid night.  One could say that he drilled Merlin a shade too harshly; set him about the laundry when he caught the pinched, unhappy look on Merlin’s face. 

 "I don’t want to look at you,“ he’d said after a practice when Gwaine was paired with Merlin, and had pinned him to the floor in a mock-tackle, and the curtain of his hair fell over them both and hid them from Arthur's eye.  

And so Merlin was out of sight for days.

******************************************************************************

And so now the knights were cross with him for being cross with Merlin -  which was completely _ridiculous_ because it was Merlin’s duty and the knights’ duty both to please _him,_ anyway -  and gave him the most silent, formal deference he’d ever seen out of them. It was like drilling Morgana's army of the dead, and absolutely no fun at all when no one was whinging about the laps or daring Arthur to a duel left-handed. (And he pretended as though he’d been sleeping those long nights, pretended he didn’t see Merlin’s stiff walk and tired eyes as he trudged around after Arthur, fingertips still so devastatingly tender on his vanbraces, over his hauberk. Merlin had taken to looking at him then, these long, penetrating stares, willing Arthur to explain his distemper, to reveal his shame.)

He dismissed everyone early on this day, the second he saw Merlin stumble and Leon’s large square palm steady him at his elbow.  He stalked out to the courtyard, and ducked behind a lonely hay cart to gather himself.

He saw Merlin sitting next to Leon on the floor of the armory, head lolling on his shoulder.  Gwaine took his hands in a gentle grip, wrapping clean linen around his palms where the blisters had finally burst.  Both of them, murmuring in soft voices.  Soothing.  Lancelot and Elyan fed him with their fingertips, and Arthur could just make out the slick pink of his tongue, chasing the juices of sliced plums and pears.  Percival lounged at Merlin’s lap, head pillowed on his long thighs, his knobbly knees.   _It can’t be comfortable to sleep there,_ Arthur tried to think, but his chest ached all the more and he thought _please, let me,_ instead. 

*******************************************************************

He dreamt of them.  He dreamt of Merlin on Leon’s lap, his sweet blue eyes closed in ecstasy. Of Gwaine taking Merlin from behind, or Lancelot under him or Elyan above, or Percival’s lips on Merlin’s pretty cock. He dreamt of his knights converging on Merlin and crashing into him like a wave, taking him and shaping him into something different.  Something Arthur had no claim to.  He dreamt of Merlin taking them all, one after another or all at once, how he would look and how he would feel - how sweet he would be for it, for anything at all.

************************************************************

If one was passing by the Crown Prince’s chambers after the rather hopefully titled Spring Feast, they would hear, muffled against the heavy oaken door, drunken shouts and scuffling boots and curious, dull sounds of objects hitting the wall. 

“ -  _You_ wanted me to learn combat - “

“ - After forgiving even _your_ stupidity - “

“ - Still had to trudge through the whole castle, it took me _hours_ - “

“  - Acting like a lazy cat doted on by the dowagers - “

“ - I _said_ I was sorry, only Lancelot and Leon asked me to - “

“- And, and _cavorting_ with my knights! Go on, enjoy your harem while I find someone competent enough to find their own backside!”  He was throwing things, but he was running out of them, and he and Merlin had been at it for  _hours,_ it seemed.  

“My - my _what_?”  Merlin spluttered presently, red from rage, but also with air of insufferable bewilderment. “I’m allowed to have _friends,_ Arthur!  Surely even  _Your Highness_ can understand that! And why do you even - " 

"Oh? _Friends,_ are they?”

“Bloody hell, Arthur - “ 

“And Gwaine, I suppose he is your best _friend_ of all?”  Merlin turned a bright, cherry red at that, eyes wide and mouth parted, an indignant, choked sound escaping before Merlin cut himself off. 

Silence.   _Ah_ , thought Arthur regretfully, after a time.  They had reached the heart of the matter.

“Well,” said Merlin coldly, if not steadily, “right now he’s a sight better friend to me than _you_.”

Arthur pulled a face. Merlin might as well have struck him.  He had thought - after all this time, he thought that perhaps - well, anyway, if he were being honest with himself, Merlin was not totally wrong. He suddenly sobered and blinked,  wrong-footed. He knew he was being unfair - a shoddy king and an even worse friend, petty and small.  The knowledge made him feel prickly, uncomfortable.  

Shamed. 

“Look, Merlin - “ Arthur tried, but Merlin turned to him and looked very tired and thin, and said, “Will that be all, my lord?” and just like that, the row was over.  Merlin averted his eyes and set about putting the chamber to rights, and all that echoed off the stone walls were the muted clatter of plates being cleared, the soft creak of cupboards being closed.   

Arthur gazed helplessly from the bed, fuming and embarrassed, as Merlin very, very gently closed the door behind him.

***************************************************************************

Well, after that, things were _very_ out of sorts. Arthur missed Merlin, missed his jaunty rejoinders and his occasional flashes of wisdom and brilliance, and knew in is heart that the only way to set things to right was to speak the awful truth, long kept hidden even from himself:

That Arthur wasn’t annoyed by Merlin’s incompetence; that he was, idiotically, moved by it; that Arthur’s heart and pride felt bruised and hurt, imagining Merlin’s dark curls threaded into by another hand, his lush mouth plundered by another's lips; that after all this time Arthur’s tenderest impulses were still inspired by Merlin’s fits of stupidity and sweetness; that, at the end of it, Arthur felt small and shaken in the face of Merlin’s loyalty, in the depthless expanse of Merlin’s compassion.

Arthur had grown to find in Merlin something more than a servant, more than a friend or a trusted advisor, something big and endless and terrifying that sprung from within him, answering to Merlin's call, answering, ocean-like, to the same mirrored vastness in Merlin.  And though Arthur knew that one day he would be Merlin's sovereign lord and his master and his king, he was helpless to the certainty that he was entirely, soul-achingly Merlin's, and Merlin's to keep.

****************************************************************************

But Arthur was a Prince, after all, and afflicted with an acute sense of when he was in the wrong, And he could not bear to wake up to George’s perfectly appetizing breakfast spreads and lavender-scented bath linens any longer, not when he was so used to seeing Merlin, flushed with exertion and looking down at Arthur with his bright mischievous eyes, whining and complaining and so tender with Arthur’s things. 

And so, after another night of restless sleep and half-formed dreams, Arthur decided he found the entire affair so far incredibly stupid, and put his signet ring upon his finger with a silent promise to dam the rushing currents that clamored for Merlin's attention and his smiles and his tart mouth, and go to him and do what must be done.

He batted George away irritably and did up his doublet himself as he made his way to Gaius’s chambers.

********************************************************************

He ran into Gwaine on his way down, watched him take a lascivious bite out of a deeply red apple, saw him swagger up the stairs with an air of completely unacceptable _satisfaction_.  

They both stopped short when they come upon each other.  

“On your way to the kitchens, my lord?” Gwaine asked, careful, measured.

“Is that where you’re coming from?” Arthur replied guardedly.

“Where else ‘m I going to get apples this sweet?” Gwaine winked and smiled as he made to go on up, but, just as he brushed past Arthur’s shoulder on the stairwell, he paused.  “You’re being a fool,” he said quietly.  Arthur's hackles rose, instinctively, and Gwaine's red mouth as he leaned towards him was wet with fruit. “And if I were you, I’d have crawled on my knees to him days ago.  Go, Sire.”  His voice was kind, but firm. “Now.”  

And Arthur went.

********************************************

Gaius showed him to Merlin’s room, a little coldly, Arthur thought, as he made his way past the workroom.  When he steeled himself to open the door it was to see Merlin, lovely in his thin nightshirt, looking so familiar and sweet after just three days apart.  And yet, it felt as though he were seeing Merlin for the first time, black and silky where he wasn’t pale and strong.    

“What do you want.”  Merlin was sullen, only reluctantly sliding his eyes towards the door Arthur was paused in.

“Will you let me in?” Arthur said warily, bracing himself for Merlin at his most upset.  Merlin was a number of things, when angry.  He was an icy dagger, cutting and distant and white with rage.  He was a fiery arrow, piercing into the heart of things, flushed with color.  Above all, an angry Merlin was always terribly, incandescently beautiful.

Right now, Merlin seemed warring between the two.  His eyes were sparking dangerously under dark lashes, his brow already furrowed as he regarded Arthur. 

He took a deep breath, swallowing his natural pride (with difficulty, because even Arthur could acknowledge that, well, he was Arthur). “I believe an apology is in order,” he said awkwardly to the wardrobe at Merlin’s left.  

“Oh? Do you?”

“ _Yes,_ Merlin,” he grit out.  A glance towards his manservant saw him with just a hint of amusement under his glare, a charming crinkling at his temple when his eyes laughed.  Arthur wanted, desperately, to put his mouth there.  “Shut up, I’m trying to tell you something,” he said distractedly.  Merlin’s eyes flared at that and he started forward as though he were going to say something but then thought the better of it, thank God.

“Well, since you’re doing such a charming job so far,” Merlin retorted instead, going back to is spot by the wardrobe and crossing his arms, dipping his chin and looking at Arthur through his lashes expectantly. 

_“Right,_ as I was _saying_ ,” Arthur said between his teeth, trying to regain some composure (and remember some of his more blithering sentiments regarding his clearly _idiot_ manservant). “I shouldn’t have thrown the platter at you, when we -”

“Alright, so, is _that_ what you’ve come all the way down here to apologize for? Or - “

“Well, obviously not! Just, let me do this. Please.” To which Merlin made an elaborate flourish with his hand in invitation. He seemed mollified already, and the gleam in his eye was no longer dangerous, but warm.

But suddenly there was so much to say, and Arthur didn’t know how quite to broach the enormity of it, and Merlin was tapping his foot infuriatingly and Arthur kept glancing at his long, nimble fingers, drumming against his arms impatiently, but then the dam was breaking and his blood was rushing and he was crossing the room and taking Merlin’s hands in his and taking Merlin’s mouth for his own.

Merlin was lush and glorious, returning the kiss with clumsy but enthusiastic strokes of his tongue.  And when Arthur, struck with a sudden and focused inspiration, trailed his lips down to Merlin’s neck (that white throat, that shadowed hollow)  Merlin tipped his head back and displayed himself for Arthur’s taking.  It was the tiniest gesture, the most thoughtless acquiescence. - Merlin’s soft exhale, the shudder of his swollen lips, the sudden spasm of his fingers against Arthur’s own.  Whatever Arthur thought before - how foolish it seemed now!  Foolish, and undeserving of this inevitable, enveloping warmth that was suffusing itself all through him, wherever they touched, wherever Merlin’s breath hit Arthur’s skin.

“You still haven’t apologized, you know,” Merlin choked out between giggles.  Arthur paused from where his tongue was tickling a spot just under Merlin’s ear to pull back and study Merlin’face. His hands gripped tight at Arthur’s, and the sauciness of his smile was proof enough that he was forgiven already.

But Arthur would deserve this thing; he would not betray his blood or the vows written in it that would protect and cherish and serve all that fell within his claim. “I have acted beastly towards you,” he said solemnly, ducking his head to meet Merlin’s gaze.  “I’ve been a fool and a coward, and you’d be in the right if you wanted to leave your - place. By my side. I won’t allow any harm to come to you, so long as you seek satisfaction in your heart.”

 Merlin dimpled and gently pulled his hands free to cradle Arthur’s head, fingers slipping soothingly through his hair. “You couldn’t just say, ‘I’m sorry, Merlin, I’ve been acting like a clotpole and a prat this whole time just because I couldn’t hide how very _deeply_ and _desperately_ I am in love with you?’” 

It was easy, now, to make the concession.  He embraced his defeat. “I am that, too.”

“Arthur,” Merlin replied. His shift had slipped off a fine, thin shoulder, and he locked his fingers around the back of Arthur’s neck. 

Arthur thought, _There will be no other,_  and was struck then, by a vision, all golden around the edges.  The two of them, at the crest of a hill, overlooking the valley of Camelot’s white towers and thatched roofs. The sunlight was strong, and the world was in bloom.  In an instant, it was summer, fragrant and warm. Merlin was beside him, and when he turned to face him, he felt the very earth of Albion sing at their feet.  In the vision, Merlin cupped his jaw and bent his head.  In an instant, it was summer, and there was joy in his heart, steady and unyielding, sweetening with Merlin’s kiss.


End file.
